Longeye by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Read Free Book Online

this—he dropped the handkerchief and watched it unmake itself, back into mist—too much of this would strain the reasoning even of an Elder.
    Could it be, he asked himself, the thought skewering him like a bolt—that Zaldore's purpose was to strip him, not of kest , but of sanity?
    Altimere sighed and settled back into his chair. Now that , he owned, was a disturbing thought, indeed.
     

Chapter Four
    "No," Becca said, standing in shift and pantaloons at the foot of her bed. "A riding dress , Nancy. That is a party dress."
    It was a very pretty party dress—a confection of pale blues and pinks, cut low over the bosom, the high waist tied with a wide ivory ribbon—and it would, Becca thought with a shiver, look well on her. However, she was not so mad as to attempt to ride in such a thing. Rosamunde would have her on the ground in a heartbeat for such folly, nor would Becca blame her.
    Before her, Nancy fluttered in midair, clearly agitated. She dropped the rejected frock on the floor, darted back to the wardrobe, and reappeared a moment later bearing a robe of diaphanous purple, stitched with hundreds of tiny mirrors.
    "No," Becca said, keeping her voice firm and even, though she wanted to shout in frustration. "A riding dress ."
    Nancy threw the robe to the floor, where its mirrors glittered disturbingly, dashed back and forth several times, then hovered bare inches from Becca's face, so that she could see the tiny silver face scrunched up in distress and the small hands twisting about each other.
    "Never mind, then," Becca said, with an assurance she did not at all feel. "I'll fetch it myself." She closed her eyes, picturing the riding dress she had once owned, a lifetime ago, when being in town with Irene was the most excitement she had ever experienced, and the number of invitations tucked 'round the frame of her mirror was a matter of grave concern and no small amount of pride.
    In those simple, happy days, her riding dress had been raspberry wool, with black frogs to close the jacket, and leather gloves dyed to match. She'd worn it with a high-necked ruffled blouse, and dainty black boots, shined until she could see her face in them, charmingly framed by a smart little hat with an ostrich feather curling along her cheek.
    This dashing ensemble fixed before her mind's eye, Becca stepped to the wardrobe, and pulled open the door.
    "Oh!" She could not quite contain that little gasp of surprise, though she had, she told herself sternly, hoped for nothing less.
    She simply hadn't expected that it would work.
    "Here," she said over her shoulder to her maid. "Help me with this."
     
    Meri took his leave of Jack Wood, and struck off into the trees—not quite at random, for no one of the Forest Gentry was ever entirely random inside a wood. Still, he did not willfully turn his steps to the north or to the east, but meandered as the short growth allowed it, listening the while for what the trees might tell him.
    The floor of the wood was soft with old leaf, scattered with sticks and broken bits of branch. Shadowflame and harper's-hood huddled under the protection of low shrubs, flaunting their bright petals. Overhead, a grey whistler gave note of his location and condition; he heard the call picked up a moment later, off to his right, and again, at the edge of his hearing, to the left.
    Startled by his silent approach, a squirrel hurtled up a ralif, claws scrabbling noisily against the bark. A fallfox and her kits melted away from him, her eyes glowing golden among the winberige leaves as he passed.
    In all of this he found only what he might expect of a elder, and somewhat sleepy, forest. He discovered no other fading, misty trees along his ramble, nor any signs of disease or predations other than those of old age. That this wood was old, he had no doubt. Broad trunks were warmly embraced by soft lichens; longhair moss wisped from the trembling fingers of conifers and the jagged ends of broken branches occasionally